


Finally Home

by allonsys_girl



Series: Scenes from Baker Street [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Declarations Of Love, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Season/Series 03, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have been at this relationship business about a month now, and it's going amazingly well. John comes home from doing the shopping, Sherlock can't keep his hands to himself, and sexiness ensues. A bit PWP. Okay, pretty much PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finally Home

“Alright, love?” John drops a hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, a soft kiss to his hair, and glances at the computer screen Sherlock is contemplating. 

“What?” Sherlock’s voice is snappy, but John knows better than to take offense. He’s just startled Sherlock out of whatever world he was currently residing in, and emerging from it was a too much of a shock for him to remember politeness.

John actually smiles, because, shit, everything Sherlock does lately makes him smile. He takes the shopping into the kitchen, starts putting away oranges and milk and tins of beans and veggies. “I said, alright? What are you doing? We haven’t a case on right now, what are you looking at?”

“Mycroft. Email about Moriarty. MI6 apparently tracked him down and captured him in Germany. He was hiding in plain sight, just as he did when he was pretending to be Richard Brook. Working as a schoolteacher, had assumed a German identity. Been there for over a year - no one suspected.” Sherlock’s voice has taken on a slightly worshipful tone. John rolled his eyes. 

“Christ, a school teacher? Who would let him teach their children?” John pops the last tin in the cupboard and wanders back over to Sherlock to read the email over his shoulder, one hand resting on the back of Sherlock’s chair, and the other on the desk.

Sherlock’s eyes slide sideways to look at John. Now that he can openly do so, he looks at John constantly. The lovely swoop of his nose, the huge blue eyes ringed by those eyelashes that are so long they snarl together when he blinks, that constant habit of licking his lips. He’s done it three times in less than a minute. Sherlock smirks, lets his eyes travel down John’s muscular neck, remembering how those muscles feel writhing under his mouth.

“John.” Sherlock can hear the huskiness in his own voice. It happens so easily now, this fire that ignites between them. Almost anything can get it burning; hands glancing together over the tea, or a narrow hallway where hips bump, and then suddenly one of them is pressing the other up against a wall, breath staccato on each other’s skin, hands under jumpers and over trouser zips and tangled in each other’s hair.

John’s busy reading, he doesn’t pay attention to tone in Sherlock’s voice. “What?”

Sherlock places a hand on top of John’s, slides his fingers in between, twists John’s hand over, their fingers and palms fitting perfectly together, and lifts their entwined hands up to his lips. Kisses John’s knuckles. “Sometimes, I can’t believe you’re here. That this is happening.”

John can’t believe it either. He watches Sherlock sleeping all the time, long after he should have been asleep himself, knowing he’ll pay for it in the morning when he wakes up aching and gritty-eyed. But he can’t help himself, because the fact that Sherlock is laying next to him, sleep-mussed and peaceful, his mouth slack and his bare chest lined up with John’s, is too miraculous a thing to be believed. And John just has to watch him to make sure he’s real. His attention completely drawn away from the computer screen, he presses his lips firmly to Sherlock’s temple. “I love you. I’m never leaving again, and neither are you.” 

Sherlock turns uncertain eyes on John. “It’s impossible to promise something like that, John.”

“I just did.” He kisses Sherlock gently, feeling that beautiful soft mouth respond eagerly, Sherlock’s lips parting and drawing John’s lower lip between them. John thinks, for the hundredth time in the month since this all began, how could we not have been this way before? Years’ worth of falling asleep with his head on Sherlock’s chest, of forgetting the kettle because warm lips and exploring fingertips are infinitely more important than a cuppa, of gloved palms sliding up thighs in cabs until one of them is squirming and the other one laughing, of flirting with each other at a crime scene until they’re breathless with laughter and arousal both, of twirling Sherlock’s hair around his fingers as they watch telly, and a hundred other small things that add up to being in love...they could have been doing this the whole time. 

And maybe Sherlock would never have left. Or maybe he would have still left, and John would have been even more devastated. John doesn’t like to think about that part. They’re never leaving each other again. He won’t allow it. 

Sherlock is kissing John harder now, with more sweeps of his tongue over John’s lips, his hand coming around to grip the nape of John’s neck. John tilts his head back, breaking the kiss. “Sherlock. Let’s...I’m half crouched over the computer chair. This is killing my back to stand here bent over like this. I know I sound like I’m 90 years old, but really.”

“Alright, old man.’ Sherlock laughs and stands up, stretching, allowing a half moon of pale smooth tummy to show as his shirt hitches up.

John pinches the skin that’s showing, making Sherlock jump, and laughs. “You’re so bloody transparent, Sherlock.”

“I mean to be.” Sherlock dives down and puts his lips to John’s, pulse pounding in his ears. His fingers skid up under John’s jumper, and John’s hands are suddenly in his hair, John’s mouth moving away, kissing down his jaw, his neck, biting his earlobe. 

They stumble and fall over to Sherlock’s chair, John landing with a thump, and Sherlock straddling him, knees pressed up against the back of the chair, shins and feet dangling. He feels like he’s towering over John.

John looks up and laughs. This is absurd. “I think we need to switch...you can’t even bend down far enough to…”

“I know, I know...here, get up…” Sherlock laughs too, pulls on John’s hands. This is how it’s become. They move around each other in perfect orbit. They agree that, for the first time, the frisson between them has settled in a bit. They still bicker, and John calls Sherlock a wanker and a little shit and Sherlock calls John an idiot and they shake their heads at each other all the time. John grumbles about Sherlock’s habits around the flat, like leaving used tea bags on the counter and petri dishes next to the sugar, and Sherlock still can’t bear to read John’s inept blogging. But that’s all silly living together business, and there’s none of the real tension, the unpleasant tension, that existed between them before this. 

Before, the stress of keeping their real feelings for each other secret was too much to bear, though they hadn’t realized it. They’d get stroppy with each other, and fight and and now they both realize, all they really needed to do was shag and it would have all been fine. They’ve laughed over it so many mornings, Sherlock’s chin on his hands, folded over John’s chest, naked and relaxed under warm blankets, their legs entwined. This was all we needed, one of them says. All we ever needed was to allow ourselves to belong to each other properly. Then they’re kissing and laughing and the world could just fall away, and it wouldn’t matter. 

Sherlock sinks down into the soft cracked leather, drawing John on top of him. John tips forward, pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s, deep breath in, curling his hands on Sherlock’s sternum. “I love you so fucking much.” 

Sherlock smiles and says nothing, just tips his chin up to catch John’s lips, and John melts into him, arms slipping around Sherlock’s neck and leaning closer. There’s nothing in the world that compares to this, Sherlock knows. He knows this. It’s irrefutable fact. John’s weight on his legs, feeling his thighs tensing as he arches up to press his mouth harder to Sherlock’s, smelling him, tea and soap and something heavier, muskier, something that makes Sherlock shiver. This - this right here - is everything. 

Sherlock reaches up to stroke John’s back under his jumper. His skin is pleasantly heated, and he bends and wriggles against Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock presses his fingers into John’s spine, rubbing up and down methodically, then changes his angle and lets his fingernails drag down John’s skin lightly. 

“Oh.” John shudders and gasps against Sherlock’s mouth, his hips moving forward as his back bends concave. 

Sherlock smiles, satisfied. He loves to make John wriggle and writhe, tease him until he’s panting. He doesn’t often get the chance, because John’s usually the one directing, but Sherlock senses tonight John may be willing to share the control a bit more.

He does it again, nails skating over John’s skin as lightly as possible without tickling. Up and down, up and down. John can’t stand it. It shouldn’t be half as erotic as it is, but his back has always been sensitive, and this is exquisite. Sherlock varies the pressure, so just as John thinks he knows what to expect, Sherlock’s touch gets lighter, John straining toward his fingers for more. Then Sherlock presses harder, until it almost hurts, and John’s arching away, hips pressing down into Sherlock’s.

John feels heavy and drunk with desire now. His head is full, feels liquified. He rolls his head forward to press hot lips against Sherlock’s neck, breathing in Sherlock, the smell of dry cleaning and spicy soap and chemicals that is so uniquely him, and such an incredible turn on for John. He feels the heat rising in him, the urgency. He bites Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock lets out a shocked breath and digs his fingers into John’s ribs.

Pleased with that response, John wraps a hand around the side of Sherlock’s head and presses his mouth harder into his neck, pulling skin and tendon into his mouth. He can feel Sherlock’s pulse thrumming faster and faster, his fingers now slipping down to John’s hips, digging into the bone. John starts working the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt open, and Sherlock tugs on John’s jumper. 

“Get this god-awful thing off.” Sherlock’s voice is barely more than breath. 

John complies, sitting up and pulling the jumper over his head, tossing it behind him. Sherlock lets out a long breath, his eyes roaming over John’s chest, followed quickly by his hands. “Look at you. God, you’re just perfect.” 

John loves to hear Sherlock say things like that. He says them often now, and they make John feel dizzy with pleasure. He’s never been so treasured by anyone. Sherlock runs his hands up John’s entire torso, slowly, thumbs passing over every scar, fingertips touching every muscle, every ripple of skin. He flicks his thumbs over John’s nipples, making John buck and groan. Over John’s shoulders, his hands find the back of John’s neck, pulls him down to meet his mouth. 

Then they’re kissing hard and messy, teeth and tongues scraping against each other, John clutching Sherlock’s arms around his neck. Sherlock runs one hand down John’s stomach, draws a palm across the tip of John’s erection. John presses up into his hand, thigh muscles clenching, and his head falls backward.

“Sherlock, oh god, let’s get out of this fucking chair.”

“I thought you liked fucking in the chair…” Sherlock drawls, his voice dark and teasing.

“You fucking wanker. Don’t mess me about. Let’s go in the bedroom...come on.” John backs out of the chair, pulling on Sherlock’s hands. 

Sherlock lets John pull him up, then pulls John against him, his erection pressing into John’s stomach. John looks up at him, from under those long white blonde lashes, blue eyes dark with blown pupils, ignited with want, and Sherlock feels such a heat spreading through him, it’s like lava in his veins. He pushes John backwards, “Go. Get in there.”

John’s smile is crooked and pleased as he turns away, hands still in Sherlock’s, pulling him behind him as they move through the kitchen towards what used to be Sherlock’s bedroom and is now just *the* bedroom. Sherlock watching John’s back muscles undulating under his skin, makes a quick move up behind him, arms wrapping around him, still holding John’s hands, and sinks his teeth into John’s shoulder.

“Oh, Christ, Sherlock! That actually kind of hurt, and not in a good way.”

Sherlock nuzzles from John’s shoulder up into his neck. His voice is a purr. “I couldn’t help it. I want to eat you alive sometimes.”

John spins in Sherlock’s arms, meeting his eyes. “You. You are fucking dangerous.”

“You love it.” Sherlock leans down, finds John’s mouth, gives him a slow, purposeful kiss, tongue languidly exploring the inside of John’s mouth. John starts backing them up into the hallway, still kissing. They bump into the doorframe, start laughing into each other’s mouths. 

“Oh, fuck, we are never going to make it in there.” John’s half laughing, half kissing Sherlock’s neck, his spine not uncomfortably pressed against the edge of the doorframe. 

“Yes, we are, because I want you inside me, and that’s where the lube is.” Sherlock growls, and for the first time, uses their size difference to his advantage. He slides his hands under John’s arse and picks him up, which draws a cry of protest from John, but he carries him all the way down the hall and practically throws him on the bed. 

John pushes himself up on his elbows, lips pursed and brow furrowed. He points at Sherlock, standing by the bed between John’s knees. “If you EVER fucking PICK ME UP again, Sherlock Holmes. If you ever. I will kick your fucking arse.”

Sherlock loves it when John gets like this, commanding like a soldier, but also a bit like a teenage boy trying to prove he’s tougher than people think he is. Something to do with being short, Sherlock always thinks. He leans over, crawling up the bed, bracing himself with his arms on either side of John’s waist, and puts his face close enough to John’s to feel his breath. “Are you angry enough to fuck me into this mattress until I’m screaming your name?”

“Oh jesus fucking christ, Sherlock. The shit that comes out of your mouth.” John can hardly believe the things that Sherlock sometimes says to him in bed. They’re so damned dirty and good, and he never thought Sherlock would be the kind of person to understand dirty talk, but he does. So well. 

Sherlock’s unfastening John’s jeans, kissing down his chest. He pushes John back gently by his shoulder, kisses his belly as John lays back. He taps John’s hip. “Lift that cute little arse for a moment.” 

John complies, lifting his hips so Sherlock can shimmy his jeans and pants down and off. John’s erection bobs, and without hesitation, Sherlock leans over and takes him in his mouth, tongue pressing hard against the vein. John has to work very hard not to slam his hips into Sherlock’s mouth. Instead, he reaches back for something to hang on to, but he’s horizontal across the bed, and there’s nothing except the edge of the mattress. He flips his hands over and grabs on as well as he can. 

Sherlock’s sliding his mouth up and down John’s cock, licking the vein, taking his mouth off long enough to lick and kiss and nibble John’s thighs and balls and lower belly, and then sinking his mouth back onto his cock. John’s squirming rather pleasingly now, moaning and gasping, breath coming hard and shallow. 

Finally, Sherlock slithers back up, kissing every inch of John’s skin. His hips, smooth and round bone curving up, his waist, softness over hard muscles from running all over London, his still army muscular chest, collarbone. Sherlock stands up as quickly as he can, strips out of his trousers and pants, and throws a leg over John’s thighs and straddles him, so John’s now saliva wet erection is against his arse. 

John’s hands immediately go to Sherlock’s waist, pushing and pulling him gently, rubbing him against his cock. He hisses through his teeth, head snapping up. “Oh fuck, fuck. That’s so good. Oh god. I could come just from this, oh god.”

“Well, don’t.” Sherlock leans backwards, which presses John’s cock even harder into him, and reaches into the bed table for the lube. “I want you to come inside me.”

“Come here.” John snakes a hand up and around Sherlock’s neck and pulls him down, kisses him forcefully, and long, until Sherlock drops the lube on the bed, and his hands come up to cradle John’s face, and he starts feeling a little dizzy from being kissed like this. Kissed like he’s a wonder, a treasure, like John would die without him. Which he would. They would both die without the other. That’s already been established. 

John kisses along Sherlock’s jaw until his lips are against his ear. Sherlock thinks he’s going to whisper he loves him, as John often does during sex. Instead, John says quietly, “Where’s that lube?” and Sherlock bursts out laughing. 

“Here, here…” He reaches back, patting around on the bed until he finds it, hands it to John, who keeps his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s while he drips it on his fingers. Sherlock swallows hard, feeling like John can’t do this quickly enough. 

John gives him a sultry smile, and hooks a leg over Sherlock’s, and suddenly flips them, so Sherlock’s on his back. He bends Sherlock’s legs, pushing them until they fall open. “Yeah, you gorgeous thing, there you go. Ready?”  


Sherlock nods. “Ready, John. More than ready. Please.”

John arches an eyebrow at Sherlock, in a good imitation of himself. “Please, hmmm? You do know I love to hear you say that.”

Sherlock licks his lips, eyes closing, head pressed back into the mattress. “I know.”

Then he feels John’s fingers sliding, thick and strong, pushing into him. He arches his back off the mattress, one hand flying down to grip John’s bicep. “Oh god, oh god, John. That feels incredible.”

“Yeah? Tell me. Tell me what it feels like.” John bends over, kissing Sherlock’s chest and then just pressing his face against Sherlock’s neck, as he pushes deeper with his fingers, his thumb pressing into the sensitive skin behind Sherlock’s balls. 

“It feels like...like you’re - all of you - is just filling me up. It feels like you’re draped over me, and inside me, inside my mind and my body and I want you to be. I want you to fill me up.” Sherlock doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore. All he can feel are John’s fingers pressing and flexing inside him, and John’s breath against his neck, and he feels, not for the first time, that he could die like this and be contented with that.

John’s cock is rubbing against his hip now, John’s pelvis canting against him in rhythm with his fingers sliding in and out. John’s making incredible little grunting noises, Sherlock can feel him leaking against his skin, and suddenly John’s fingers are out, and he’s sitting up, dripping lube in his hand and coating himself with it. He falls over Sherlock with heavy lidded eyes and swollen lips, rubbing his nose against Sherlock’s jaw as his guides himself inside.

“Oh my fucking god, jesus christ.” John pants out against Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock is so tight, the ring of muscle clenching around John as he pushes in. “Oh god, I fucking love you. Oh, god, oh god. Every time, Sherlock...”

Sherlock presses kisses against the side of John’s face, rubbing his hands through John’s hair and down over his shoulder blades, finally settling in the small of his back, the muscles under his hands trembling and twitching. “Every time what, John? What every time?”

“Every...time...it’s just as...fucking breathtaking...as the first time…” John’s rocking slowly, hands sliding underneath Sherlock’s back, and finally up to grip his shoulders.

“Oh, John.” Sherlock breathes out, and his voice is so full of affection, it makes John feel like a sob is rising in him.

John closes his eyes, trying to control both his emotions and the need to slam into Sherlock until they’re both screaming. Sherlock’s hands are on the small of his back, his spine, steadying him, grounding him. As they’ve always done for each other. He smiles to himself, able to start moving with purpose and rhythm, focusing on Sherlock’s warm hands pressing into his skin, and the thickness of his cock caught between their bellies.

Sherlock’s hips are rising to meet John’s body, John’s breathing heavy and moist against his skin, and it’s building, building in them both, like a drum beating between them, faster and faster. John feels himself starting to tremble, his muscles filling with blood and tension, electricity spiraling through him like a drug. 

He raises his head to look at Sherlock. Mouth open, eyes shut, Sherlock’s face is beautifully flushed, high colour on his cheekbones, the pink bright against his creamy white skin. “Christ, you’re beautiful. I love you.”

“I love you, too, John.” Sherlock’s voice is broken and throaty. He’s right on the edge. 

John is too. He decides to send them both over, speeding up, hitching his thrusts upwards at the end, making Sherlock cry out louder than he’s done before, and dig his fingers into John’s back.

“Yeah. Yeah, let it go. Let it go, I want to watch you. I just want to feel your come on my skin. Let it go, baby…”

Sherlock’s head pushes back, that long neck arching, and his hands are scraping across John’s back. “Oh John, oh god…” And then he stops moving, frozen, and John feels the hot liquid against his stomach. And then Sherlock’s thrashing through the aftershocks, panting and saying John’s name again and again.

“Shhhh...I got you.” John runs his hands up Sherlock’s thrashing arms, entwining their fingers, and pushing Sherlock’s hands into the mattress. “I got you.”

Sherlock finally stops moving, and flicks his eyes open to look at John. He loves it when John holds him down like this. He loves watching John moving on top of him. He can feel how half drunk with endorphins he must look, because he can barely open his eyes, and he certainly can’t move. His limbs are made of lead. 

“You, John. You come now. Inside me.” He can barely talk.

“Oh, yes. Fuck, yes.” John thrusts up, balancing himself with his hands on Sherlock’s, pressure on his wrists. Sherlock doesn’t care. John could snap his wrists, he wouldn’t care. Seeing John above him, skin pink and red, mottled with arousal, his thin mouth open and panting, that perfect blonde/grey hair sticking out all over, his stomach muscles tightening visibly with every movement...it’s the most miraculous thing Sherlock’s ever seen.

John pushes forward, hard, holding it for a few moments, biting into his lower lip, and Sherlock feels the heat flooding him. John's trembling, his muscles twitching as he sits up and his head falls forward. “Oh god, that was incredible.”

He leans down one more time while still inside Sherlock, kisses him drowsily, gently. Then he lets go of Sherlock’s hands and flops next to him on the bed, scooting around until he’s actually laying the right way and can get under the blankets. He flings an arm out toward Sherlock. “Come here, you.”

Sherlock can barely move, but he makes his way clumsily over to lay his head on John’s chest and kick his legs under the covers. John’s arms close around him, protectively. John’s cheek resting against the top of his head. 

“I can’t stay awake.”

“Nor I.”

“I’m so glad this happened, Sherlock. I feel like I’m really home, really where I’m supposed to be, for the first time in my whole life.” John’s words are slurring together, he’s falling asleep as he’s talking.

“Mmmm. I’ve always been home.” Sherlock doesn’t even know what that means. He can’t think straight, half asleep already, warm and happy, listening to John’s heart beating against his ear. 

There’s a moment of silence, and Sherlock thinks John’s dropped off to sleep.

“Yes. You have always been home.” John curls towards him, so they’re even more tightly wound together. “And we’ll always be home to each other from now on.”


End file.
